Haven
by Rianne
Summary: It was a little like watching a heartbreaking photograph. Her long lithe body, leaning against the window as if she pined for someone she couldn't be with.


**Disclaimer**: The answer to all the questions is no.

**Author Notes**: For this one to work parts of the true canon need to be forgotten. It doesn't change much, I promise! Takes place before the end of season 5.

**Haven**

_By Rianne_

When Judy had approached his desk with the thin paper slip in her hand, he had simply glanced up at her nodding his thanks, right in the middle of a complicated paragraph.

He continued to read, expecting her to place the paper on his desk and leave again like she usually did.

When she didn't his eyes raised again.

She looked nervous, but there was something in the way her eyes pleaded as she waited for his permission to speak.

"Judy?"

She thrust the paper at him as if it burned.

"I think you should call Sara," she blurted, nodding anxiously, before scurrying away.

He frowned after her retreating figure, before letting his attention drop to the yellow slip.

_Sara won't be in. Asked for a couple of days off. Her mother passed away._

Judy's neat handwriting was clear and precise.

His heart sank like a stone.

Sara...

Book forgotten he was on his feet, striding after Judy back to reception.

The woman flinched when he called her name, and he knew then that his voice had been loud and harsh.

"Why didn't you put this call through?"

She licked her lips, unable to look at him, before answering in the quiet berated tone of a frightened child. "She asked me not too, Sir."

That caught him, the tightness in this chest, causing him to look away from her whilst he controlled his reaction.

"Did she say when?" He asked impatiently, his mind trying to calculate the last time he had seen Sara at work.

It had been a couple of days, she had been off on Friday, and he remembered signing a slip allowing her and Nick to trade days, which had given her Saturday off too, today was Sunday.

Judy shook her head.

"Sir, she..." She trailed off, clearly wondering if this was her business, before catching his expression and that made her continue, "she didn't sound well. She said she will be out of work and with her family another few days."

He twitched at that, surprised.

Sara had lied.

He was the only one who knew.

She had no family.

"Gil, what's going on here?"

Catherine's voice as she approached was concerned, and accusatory.

He realised in that moment that his fists were clenched, that he was grimacing.

Everyone in the reception was staring at him, he could feel their eyes.

He had to get out of here.

He ignored Catherine as she shouted after him; instead he turned and walked away.

He didn't even see the inside of his office as he dragged his coat off the stand and fled. He could still hear Judy explaining what was going on to Catherine, the two women speaking with voices filled with concern and menial thoughts of sending sympathy flowers.

What good was that?

What could pretty flowers and clichéd words do?

He had to see her.

Whether she wanted to see him or not.

He had thought they were past this behaviour of hiding from one another. When she had told him about her family, about the horrors she had seen and endured he had been sure that they had found themselves in a place where they could at least trust one another with things of this magnitude of importance.

The drive to her apartment was a rapid haze, he knew the streets.

His mind in as hasty an overdrive as the scenery rushing past him at a blur.

How long had she suffered this alone?

He had to calm himself by counting to ten before he first knocked on her door.

The pound of his knuckles slower than the pound of his heart.

His irrational thoughts flicking quickly back to the conversation between Judy and Catherine.

Flowers, should he have brought flowers?

Should he have brought food?

Weren't those the typical actions in this type of situation?

She wasn't answering and the anxiety levels rose.

He knocked again.

The skin on his knuckles starting to smart.

It took four knocks before he finally heard the sound of the locks inside being drawn back.

She didn't have the safety chain on.

The door opened slowly, and there she was.

Blinking dazedly out of the darkness.

A wave of aching sadness wafting out of her apartment and ghosting over him.

Her face was blank.

His gaze swept protectively over her, from bare feet, through pyjama bottoms, and t-shirt top, right to the tangled unruly mess of her hair.

Her eyes were glassy.

They blinked far too slowly.

She didn't meet his eyes.

She looked like she hadn't slept in days.

He couldn't be sure how long they stood there like that, him greedily studying her, she studiously avoiding him.

It lasted until she wavered, realising he wasn't going to go away, and stepped back, unceremoniously letting him inside.

She crossed the room, as he closed the door and waited.

Wanting nothing more, now that he had seen her, than to hear her voice.

But she didn't speak.

A burst of white and yellow in the shadows by the door caught his gaze.

The showy bouquet of flowers from the Lab had beaten him to her door.

The card with them remained attached and unopened.

She must have opened the door to the delivery guy, taken them and simply placed them at the ground by her feet after closing the door again.

He found her again, tall in the darkness.

He should say something.

Tell her how sorry he was; ask her if she needed anything.

Yet no words came.

This wasn't a normal bereavement.

How did you say you were sorry for someone's loss when that person wasn't sure if they hadn't already lost this person more than a decade ago?

He whispered her name carefully, feeling like he shouldn't speak.

Like he shouldn't move, for fear he'd startle her.

Her only response was to wander further away into the shadows.

The only light in her apartment was the thin glow from beyond her window.

He scanned the dimness.

Against his better judgement his eyes searched for any sign that she had been drinking.

He couldn't stop himself from going there, even though the lack of trust it betrayed hurt him.

There was nothing to give her away.

Tidy, it was painfully tidy, almost glittering.

He could just about make out her bed in the room beyond, sheets rumpled in such a way as to suggest disturbed rest, rather than actual sleep.

But rest was a good place to start.

Had she eaten?

He took another step into the room, brushed his palms against his trouser legs nervously.

"Is there anything I can do?"

She didn't even move.

He glanced towards her empty kitchen.

"Have you eaten?" He risked another whisper, "can I make you anything?"

He kept watching her, silhouetted against the glowing window.

And eventually he got a response; she shrugged her shoulders so slowly he might have imagined it.

She didn't move from her spot by the window, watching the traffic glide by in a muted rainbow of red and gold lights.

Eventually he sat, watching her from afar, fully capable of just waiting.

It was a little like watching a heartbreaking photograph.

Her long lithe body, leaning against the window as if she pined for someone she couldn't be with.

Lost, lonely, longing.

He wasn't sure he wanted to be privy to the thoughts in her head.

After a while it felt like she had forgotten he was there, and his watchful gaze began to feel somewhat voyeuristic.

He shifted on the awkward sofa, the faux leather creaking.

The sound a painful reminder of the last time he had been at her apartment.

The time she had argued frustratedly with him until he had forced her to tell him the painful truth about her family.

He regretted his actions, but understanding had come from her powerful revelations.

Eventually his attention settled on the small table before him.

Caught by a colourful rectangle.

There was a single photograph there, old, unframed, slightly creased in one corner.

He eased it closer with the gentlest touch.

Already aware of the treasured nature of this simple piece of photographic paper.

Brought it to lie in a small pool of light so he could examine it more closely.

A beautiful woman had been captured by the lens, tenderly cuddling her child.

Both were laughing, the same huge smile on their faces.

The love in the picture was unmistakable.

The only picture he had ever seen of Laura Sidle was the one with her arrest paperwork. Where a haunted and dazed woman had stared back as if dead inside, her face bruised and swollen, unrecognisable from the daughter she had borne.

But the woman in this picture was so like the Sara he knew. Dark eyed, beautiful, and that meant the adorable child in her arms was Sara.

This picture had been through the wars, most likely smuggled from her broken home, and quite possibly the only one Sara had.

It was beautiful and heartbreaking.

Made all the more poignant by the years that had passed.

So many missing years, so many things that would never get said, so many wounds never to be healed.

It was no wonder she grieved, she had survived so much loss and pain, abandoned in the world, and yet she had once been this loved. She knew what she was missing.

He had often wondered how the loving, open, powerful woman he knew had managed to weather such tragedy unscathed.

If he had to hazard a guess.

Hope.

He turned back to her, his fingertips still touching the photo, she was still watching the world.

He stood, approaching slowly, as he stepped closer he saw her waver on her feet, and he lurched forward clumsily to steady her.

Taking a gentle hold of her shoulders.

She felt cold beneath the thin cotton t-shirt.

"Sara," he was back to whispering, "you should rest."

She allowed him to guide her towards her bedroom, his palm felt far too hot where he pressed it to the cool cotton centre of her back.

She moved as if dreaming, a light sleepwalking motion almost as if she floated a few inches off the ground.

She clambered onto the bed, slumping more heavily into the sheets. The energy sapped from her.

As he manoeuvred the covers over her, she managed to find the energy to curl up on herself, facing the centre of the bed.

Her nose was pressed to the sheet; her eyes still open, but unfocused, staring blankly at the expanse of mattress beneath her as if it held all the answers.

He continued to settle her, and it took a few moments before he realised that he was imitating the way his own mother used to tuck him in at night.

With thoughts of his own mother in his head, the pang in his chest brought a lump to his throat. He loved his mother, dearly, and he knew that even as healthy and lively as she still was in her eighties, he too would inevitably loose her, sooner than he would like.

Putting himself in Sara's place was too heartbreaking to consider for more than a moment. She had lost her mother, as a teenager and now once again as an adult.

But he knew who he would want with him when the moment came, more than anyone.

Sara.

Reaching over, he lightly stroked her hair back from her face.

Fingertips ghosting the soft curve of her cheek.

She didn't even blink.

He didn't want to leave her. He couldn't leave her. She shouldn't be alone.

He twisted his mouth as he considered.

Then slowly he toed his shoes off, sliding them under the bed. His coat was next to go, and then he slid onto the bed too.

All the time watching her face, waiting for her to ask him to leave, to push him away, to do something, anything.

She was scaring him.

She always had a reaction.

Her face usually so open and expressive.

Everything she did was done with passion, with heartfelt enthusiasm, full of life and kindness.

Her hand lay in the middle of the bed between them.

He couldn't take his eyes off it, off the potential it held.

She had let him hold her hand before. In the saddest way it seemed to give her comfort without implying pity.

It was heartfelt, but not overwhelming.

He didn't think she could take too much right now.

He thought about it a moment longer, before he reached out and tenderly lifted her delicate hand, before sliding his, palm up, beneath hers. Her skin was cool against his larger heat, limp, and he easily slid his fingers in between hers, hoping to warm her.

All the time watching her as intently as she watched the cotton beneath her.

He stroked his thumb along the length of her index finger.

She bit her lip.

Finally, a response.

Her fingers tightened weakly around his.

And then her eyes lifted.

Meeting his.

There were so many emotions there, tangled with heartbreak, hurt, sadness and loss.

He had to blink faster as tears filled his own eyes.

She looked so vulnerable, so very lost.

Her chest beginning to quiver.

Those huge welling eyes pleading.

She didn't know what to do.

And neither did he.

How to deal with this?

How to make it better?

How to take away all the pain?

He couldn't tell you who moved first, but she was suddenly in his arms.

Curling trembling fingers into his shirt.

Her cold nose burrowing into his neck, into the sensitive place between his ear and his shoulder.

She gave into her grief with a desperate sob.

And the sad and intimate feel of her hot tears sliding down his neck tightened his arms around her.

Clutching her closer, both of them lost.

He had seen her cry before, but it was usually so controlled, her tears escaping silently, almost against her will.

But tonight it was so very different, she physically shook with every sob.

So desperate for this simple act of human kindness.

She felt so small in his arms, but she was warming slowly under the gentle rhythm of his stroking palms.

He could feel her body relaxing.

Feel the spaces between sobs widen as her breathing slowed.

He felt her unfurl her fingers from his shirt and took a breath to prepare himself for the moment she pulled away, but she didn't.

Instead she slid her arms around him too, dreamily slow, well on her way to falling exhaustedly into asleep.

Her face was still in the crook of his shoulder, but her soft breath caressed his skin now instead of her scalding tears.

His lips found her soft hair, pressing gently along her hairline, soothingly.

He too began to relax, enjoying being close to her, feeling her warming body fully relax in his arms as she finally slept.

Sleepily, he softly whispered promises of safety, shelter and love to her sleeping form, rocking her until he too slipped into dreams.


End file.
